Without
by Clipsed
Summary: After all that she considered her world is taken from her, Bella must learn to stand on her own two feet.


**NOTE: **This is relatively old, and also my first attempt at a fanfiction. I have stayed well away from _Twilight_ characters since (XD), and my writing is—in _my_ mind, at least—much improved.

**DISCLAIMER:** First off, I have no rights to _Twilight_, nor to the books that come after it. As such, the characters aren't mine, I'm simply borrowing them.

**WITHOUT**

When he died, I thought I was going to die with him. Since I first knew I was in love with him, I figured, '_Hey, he dies, I might as well too, right?_' So the idea of dying in the event of his untimely (or long overdue, depending on how you look at it) wasn't a strange one for me, though I knew he would have hated it, knew his family, my friends, would never forgive me. Teenagers, though, are known for their fickle natures. Mine proved to be no different.

Other than those of the drunken Vegas variety, I'm probably the only girl in history who can barely remember her wedding day. Okay, I didn't technically make it down the aisle, but I fully planned to do so. Honest. God, Fate, the crazy old cat lady, _whatever_ you believe in, apparently had other plans.

Not even Alice saw the Volturi coming. Thankfully, it was well before any guests—Charlie included; I don't know how I would have managed if I'd lost him too—had arrived. I still remember seeing Aro, registering surprise; remember Esme's eyes widening in shock and Edward moving to step between me and the other vampires.

And then all I remember is the blood.

It must have been that that made me pass out, because I'm pretty sure the Cullen's were all alive and well before everything went black. Rosalie, I found out later, had gotten me to safety. The Volturi had been dealt with; no one would tell be how, though I seriously doubted much harm had come to them. And Edward was dead.

The three months that followed were completely different from the void I'd felt when Edward had left me. Then I'd wanted to die. Now, I wanted nothing more than for the world to cease existing, the universe, even. Anything to erase all traces of my existence, of his. I wanted life itself to be as empty as I was, devoid of all joy, of all _life_. I don't even want to imagine what it would have been like if I'd seen him go down, if I'd seen him… after.

The first moment I was 'awake'—for lack of a better word; the first time I can remember feeling much of anything, I guess–afterwards, I was alone. Inside, outside, upside down, you name it. And I cried. And cried. It wasn't the quiet sobbing one masters, nor the shrieking of an infant. My wailing—yes, wailing—must have been loud enough to be heard in Milan, and yet only Charlie came to see me. Not Edward; he was dead. Not Alice; I found out later that she, along with the rest of the family, had relocated to Alaska. Charlie, though, was enough, if only the relief I saw on his face. Relief that I was still in there somewhere, even if I was loud enough to be heard across the continent and was probably covered in my own snot (because really, no one looks good when they cry).

For the next few months, I was _there_, but could hardly be considered happy. At that point, I was still sticking by my stance that a life without Edward was one not worth living, but was not yet at the point where I could actually be bothered to do anything about it. Alice came back eventually, though she didn't stay long; apart from her visit, and from Charlie, I didn't speak much to anyone, didn't have any desire to. I was aware, for all that my actions were on autopilot, I _felt_, but without him, I didn't want to do either.

A year after the wedding-that-wasn't, I saw him for the first time in over fourteen months. He'd grown bigger still—surely that wasn't natural? Or even _super_natural? —but also older, more subdued. He didn't smile, didn't even acknowledge my presence, despite the fact that _he_ had come to _my_ home. Charlie seemed to feign unawareness of the tension, and quickly made himself scarce, leaving me seated on the couch, and Jacob Black leaning up against the wall, the chasm of silence growing impossibly large between us. It was as if we were competing to see who could not-talk at the other longest, and I won. Well, he let me win.

"It's been a year, Bella." His tone was even and low, though even I could tell he was straining to keep it so. "And you've not gone and done something _stupid_—" we both knew what that something was— "yet. Oddly enough though," Jacob continued, voice growing louder and filling the otherwise silent room, "you've not spoken to anyone, or even left the _house_ from what I've heard. I thought—"

He didn't finish whatever it was he'd wanted to say, but didn't leave, either. I myself seemed to have lost the ability to form words, and so kept my mouth firmly shut as he just stood their glowering at me, as if we were eight and I'd eaten the last cookie in the jar. Half a syllable filled the room causing my eyes to dart back to him, however he seemed to change his mind almost the instant he'd started to speak. Whatever was going on inside his head, it didn't seem as if Jacob would be saying anything any time soon, and so the silence wore on for what seemed like eternity.

"Bella…" even in the quiet, I could barely hear him, wished I couldn't at all. The way he said my name _hurt_, as if he'd punched me squarely in the nose. It was neither harsh nor angry, nor painfully nonchalant. It was so far from any of these things, stirring up old emotions that had been buried under the emotional pain and made it feel as if my heart was breaking all over again.

And then he hugged me, squeezed me until I couldn't breathe, as only Jacob could. That only made the feeling worse, and he seemed to be oblivious to the fact that I was now crying. Or he just didn't care. I'm not sure how long we stood there like that—at least until the tears stopped flowing—or anything he said to me while we did, only that, when he let go, I no longer felt as if I were being eaten alive from the inside. I was still far from happy, or even content, but that simple hug (I had forgotten his scent, his warmth) healed a part of me I hadn't even thought to worry about. His absence, it seemed, had left an emptiness in me that had been trial to rival that left by Edward's death, and even with just that one hole patched up, I felt _whole_. Not happy, not ready to move on, but ready to accept that someday, I _could_ move on.

When he died, I thought I was going to die with him. I have a family of vampires to thank that I didn't, and Charlie for the fact that I stuck around after. I can thank Alice for coming to see me even though it must have hurt, can thank the friends I'd made in Forks for giving me space when I needed it but welcoming me back when I was ready, and I can thank Edward Cullen for some of the most unforgettable years of my life.

No one, though, can take credit for my happiness now, not even Jake (though believe me, he's tried. I, for one, am still irritated that I seem to need a man to complete me). It's the—hopefully—final product of my loves, my losses, my gains, my mistakes, and the fact that I'm often wrong about myself.

Being right is overrated anyway.


End file.
